Caddy Compson
by feithecontact
Summary: I wrote this for my Literature of Psychology class; the assignment was to write a section for William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury from Caddy's point of view, since Faulkner doesn't. It won't make much sense if you haven't read The Sound and the Fur


The smell of trees.  
  
I always liked trees I think maybe once I was closer to them, trees and wind and spring rain They always remind me of Benjy. Benjy at the tree after the branch Dumuddy gone funeral where they moans That's niggers white folks dont have funerals  
  
reminds quentin daughter brother both gone not here  
  
"What's she sittin' there like that foah?"  
  
trees outside thin layer of condensed air keeps out the trees why dont they let them in? it would smell nice  
  
"Who'n know? She just sets there all day, mostly, lookin' out th' window."  
  
outside trees and wind daughter brother both gone everyone gone gone past light and dark past wind and trees and rain  
  
smell of trees  
  
I sniffed the air deep, trying to fill my lungs with the smell. Like the more I had of it inside me the longer it would stay. It was chilly, but the kind of chilly where it only adds to the warmth inside, and you dont need a jacket because a jacket would only cut off your inside keep everything out  
  
I sniffed deep, like I wanted the smell to be in every part of me fill me up and make me not me.  
  
sometimes I wanted me not me. compson girls gotta act a certain way aint no way no compson girl gonna act like that ill be gone soon and then and then me not me somewhere not inside of me but somewhere else where acting is being and there is no me no compson.  
  
Benjy there at the gate waiting, beautiful simple benjy not knowing anything but seeing everything not understanding but being sometimes I wished I was benjy. nobody expected him to be anything but what he was.  
  
benjy your caddy's here don't worry hush benjy caddys here I think he smells the trees benjy and I we both like the trees.  
  
"What'ser name?"  
  
what's your name im caddy caddy compson  
  
you a compson girl bet you a stuck up bitch but you no better than any other bitch is you  
  
get away from me leave me alone  
  
you say that but every bitch say that and aint none of 'em ever mean it why don't you come over here by the branch well see if you got what every other one got see if you any better  
  
not me not compson  
  
branch down by branch damuddy  
  
you got to mind me  
  
"Her name's Candace. Candace Compson. Back when she was 'ware enough to talk to folks 'round her, she'd say to call her Caddy."  
  
your mommer going to whip you for getting your dress wet she's not going to do any such thing  
  
quentin how do you know I that's all right how I know how do you know quentin she said she was besides im older than you I im seven years old I guess I know  
  
"What you s'pose she lookin' at?"  
  
looking at trees from window, soft white over all falling to split sky with tiny flecks of no-color christmas; trees all white benjy at the fire he always liked fire sometimes I think it dances just for him, dancing red and yellow I heard some niggers say once that when you look into fire it looks back at you thats silly nigger-talk but sometimes I think the fire sees benjy sees inside benjy only the fire nothing else because he cant show us cant say even if he tries  
  
"Trees, I s'pose. She always lookin' at 'em, whatever they is."  
  
after that I could never smell the trees the same again; always the trees were muted, behind other smells like people and cars and horses for a long time I wished I could smell trees the same again and feel the wind and the rain and the sun but now I know theres no way back once its gone it can never be again you lose something when they touch you something you cant get back  
  
at the branch the water around me wanting to sink needing to be clean again because something was dirty but some stains dont wash out with water only with time and the wearing down of caring over long processions of minutes hours days months years water around like being born again dark and warm and impersonal so that im not me only that piece of flesh inside that is waiting to be  
  
honeysuckle floating on the air sweet but not the same as trees  
  
is benjy still crying I didnt want him to cry why did he cry did he smell the stain?  
  
I dont know yes I dont know poor benjy quentin sits by the bank on grass wet with lapping water sound like tiny waves tiny copy of ocean mother ocean  
  
Get out of that water are you crazy wanting to sink into water be water not be dirty never dirty again get out now  
  
I get out skirt wet pulling like cold hands why dont you wring it out you want to catch a cold  
  
Yes  
  
poor quentin  
  
"Hmmm. She got any fambly?"  
  
"Sad story, that 'un. Mother died sick, father died drinkin', brother died drownin'. She got two brothers left; one of 'em livin' at the house up by the golf course, name Jason. Th'other got put in Jacksonville few years back."  
  
mother died sick lived sick on her deathbed for fifty years in death was just the same no death was better because it was end father he only understood quentin quietly expected a compson lady but never complained when none materialized quentin gone brother gone gone into the deep water become water he loved not me only thought of compson but death more jason loved nothing found meaning only in consumption he was the sum of what he consumed air and food and life and breath and that was all benjy he was truth the pure fire that burned away illusions and lies and left only what was being without seeming benjy was  
  
"Hmm. Sad story. I s'pose ev'ry folks round here got sad stories to tell, if only they knew to tell 'em."  
  
"Mmhm. I s'pose they do at that. Even 'mong sad stories though, somer 'em so sad make you feel like no room inside for nothing but weepin', so sad it burn away ev'rythin' else. Manyer sad story round here."  
  
smell of trees...  
  
  
-Dan Riley  
Literature of Psychology  



End file.
